Quasimodo
by An.Arcane.Hamartia
Summary: A non-chronological look at a man's best and worst times. This may be what happens when you fall in love with your best friend who is actually your brother who is actually a shape-shifter come to ruin your life in order to summon an evil God. Non-canon Ri


Riley had dismissed Aiden for the day… as much as a boundary-lacking, at-your-every-beck-and-call servant could be dismissed, without being released. As useful a tool as Aiden was, Ri didn't generally like him to begin with; so having him around on an unrelenting 24/7 schedule was a bit much. It was especially annoying when Ri didn't even possess the will to lift himself out of bed this particular morning, let alone order around a little twit.

* * *

It was like a boa wrapped around his middle, constricting his gut each time his muscles contracted and the vomit came raging up his throat, then down onto the pavement below. This alleyway had seen this so many countless times; all of the alcoholics were its children, and like any good parent, it embraced Riley as the arms he had bracing himself against the stonewall gave way, pulling him towards its grimy, dark bowels.

* * *

It wasn't hard to admit it was unconventional. He had to be the first one to do it… apart from those unemployed, really bohemian, abstract artists whose idea of art included titles like 'Garnished Garbage', 'Homeless Homage', and other bullshit of that same chord. Even still, bearing the risk of coming off as the studio's token psychotic douche bag, Clive knew it was necessary.

The man was just sprawled on the ground passed out, half in the alley, half jutted out onto the cracked pavement sidewalk. He was covered in what could have been his own puke, someone else's piss, and so much dirt that exaggerating Twilight-haters would compare him to Edward's hair. Yet Clive's foot still ventured towards him, prodded him slightly, and waited for the guy's eyes to blink open. A scowl and grimace were already present and shooting towards the one standing tall.

"Have you ever considered modeling?" A perfectly white business card swirled down to the ground next to Riley's head.

* * *

"How badly do you need it?"

"Doesn't matter. He's out."

"I'd argue a conveniently-timed return…"

My master, it could be debated, had a higher alcohol content than most American beers. The scent this caused was overbearing, even without any of his alcohol-stained clothing (which was all of it), which there wasn't. The aroma was also simultaneously comforting in the most indistinguishable of ways.

I stood patiently with wide, waiting eyes inches from the door to my Confessors room. Half a heartbeat later, and the door was thrown open just enough that he could jut his face and the top of his bare chest out. Ri glowered down upon seeing that the other voice in the room had been right. The other voice, of course, belonged to Sebastian; I would recognize that voice anywhere.

"Aiden is at your command, sir," I encouraged as he glowered endlessly, visibly caught up with something internally.

"As your Confessor," he said and whatever was left of the real me, inside, mistakenly tensed in pre-emptive terror, "I release you."

* * *

For once, Riley left a voice message. Riley never left voice messages. He was of the opinion that repeatedly calling every number of yours would get you an answer ten times faster; he was right. Imagine sitting in a meeting opposite the President of the largest, most successful corporate company of the past five years, and all that's heard is incessant vibrating. ('Actually, throwers don't worry about ticking because modern bombs don't tick. If it's vibrating, however… ')

The voice message was all the more baffling because it was probably one of the more important things, in Sebastian's recent memory, Ri'd really ever called him about. They had a potential record deal.

* * *

Their voices were as soft as hums and quiet as whispers.

"His mind just… snapped. Mum died, and with her the father I knew."

"And then things snowballed…into things reminiscent of what Aiden's told me…" he let linger, almost as a question.

It was confirmed by, "Mm," and was followed by a long, broken into silence.

"Do you hold it against him… what happened…?"

"No… but I wish I'd never known about him. I don't see him as my son—just a reminder of it all. If my emotional range went so far, I think I might hate him… but it's closer to indifference."

"Then… did they break you completely? If you can't 'hate'…are you capable of love?" he wasn't teasing this time; there was a deep, empathetic concern for Ri.

"I didn't used to think so… but I love _you_…"

Their bodies were close under the sheet where each sat leaning against the plain, black headboard. Seb adjusted to sit up a bit more and disregarded the cigarette half hanging out of Ri's mouth as he gave him a long, sensual kiss.

* * *

Sebastian's heart stopped dead in his chest. For a few stand-alone moments, his heart rate mirrored that of the man he considered a brother, the one he had just found out to be dead. When his heart restarted, it was with a violent jump.

He hadn't answered the call. He'd ignored it. He had thought Ri was starting to accept the need to leave voice-mails.

Vivian couldn't tell if her beloved husband was beginning to sob or hyperventilate. Regardless, she dashed to his side once overcoming the shock she, too, experienced after hearing Aiden's news. He was definitely hyperventilating; Sebastian's face read strictly of dread: eyes wide, mouth open, and face drained of all pigmentation.

As a dutiful, caring wife, Viv was trying to calm him by cooing the tenderest of words. She recognized that he had every reason to be distraught, but he was almost going to go into shock. Fearful that he actually might, he was lead into a new room to be laid down. Fortunately for his health he broke out of this state not too many moments later. Unfortunately for the vases, paintings and furniture, Bast transitioned immediately into fury. Neighbours all around could hear the shattering, crashing, and cries of stringed, agonized, "FUCK!"s.

* * *

For someone who you'd expect to be grateful beyond all imagining, the man was intolerable. He fit right in at the photo-shoot. The scowling indifference he displayed in front of the camera was even better than any model could give if only for the fact that his was 100% real. It couldn't be contained within the frame, which was exactly what they wanted; the camera loved Riley so much, it was like watching extreme, European, underground porn. All Ri'd ever needed was someone to dress him up and do his hair properly.

Luckily for Clive's job, no one cared to ask where he 'discovered' this guy. Meanwhile, it'd also been made blatantly clear: Riley was only doing this for Clive to earn a favour in return. Clive had connections 'in the industry' to some pretty high-up music execs, and Riley had a demo tape.

* * *

Sure, with Seb's monopoly over Luck, he could have gotten their little band fame almost immediately, whenever he desired it. But he didn't need the money, and Ri didn't want the limelight, thus, they'd mutually agreed to only accept recognition should their music earn it.

Certain things had changed.

The record deal was the only reason Sebastian began speaking to Riley again; he sort of had to, despite Aiden still being enslaved. This worked for Ri just fine.

* * *

There was skin, and lots of it. There were moans, and highs not even heroin could have helped Ri to experience. If something felt off, he was too caught up to catch it, though he still had no idea where Sebastian's soft cooing in German came from. It was during a brief re-adjustment pause, with Ri gasping and grimacing, and consisted of the sweet words, "Unterm Nabel im Geäst wartet schon ein weißer Traum. Brüderlein komm halt dich festund schüttel mir das Laub vom Baum." Another moan echoed through the room.

* * *

In that alleyway, there was a dumpster. The alley looked after its children and provided for them, even if their needs went against their best interest. Against said dumpster's green, graffitied shell Ri leaned, and then slunk (aka progressively fell) until he was on his ass.

He was 100% sober, but after these new highs, every subsequent down worsened exponentially. Meanwhile, his thoughts only became clearer and clearer. Right now, he could see so far that the only limit came with the road disappearing around the edge of the Earth's curvature. In that crystal clarity, he could hear every time his father talked down about 'fags'. It sounded like it was being whispered in his ear right then and there.

It'd been unending, and the idea had been both pounded and absorbed into Ri's own head…All of it coming from the animal who would fuck his own son for a weekend bonding activity, or who would consider a good, sellable family photo to be the nude picture of the prepubescent boy utilizing childhood flexibility to bend a leg behind his head, or suck his own cock. They always came under strict order, with consequences of an 'extra special' night with daddy and his 'biggest' mates, should one disobey.

And now he'd forced sexual contact with his own son.

And he'd admitted—to the guy and to himself—that he was in love with a man.

He was as bad as his own father, whom he adored and despised…only Riley was more worthless than him; sex with boys or not, at least his dad had never bottomed.

* * *

There was no force of impact felt as his legs gave way under him from shaking so bad, sending him to his knees. The shaking was due to fear and there was no impact because here, no natural forces existed; neither did anything apart from thick, solid, chilling darkness.

"After almost 3 decades of careful cultivation…you mean to tell me that you simply 'pushed' your puppet 'too far'…?" The voice was calm, monotonous as would be a tornado contained within an hourglass.

"…Yes sir…" he barely managed due to his lips, now, shaking worse than his legs.

"I thought you knew what you were doing."

"I'll find a-another way…"

"In 3 _months_?" The one trying to stop himself from vomiting due to nerves gulped. "If I had…_any_ other choice... your torment would begin right here and now… As it were, you have until then to orchestrate my release. Should you fail, we'll see just how far an immortal soul can be 'pushed' until it becomes 'too far'…"

* * *

He held his phone pressed to his right ear with one hand whilst the other was completely supporting him, clutched at the lip of the dumpster. The humming roar of the dump truck could be heard in the near distance, and all he wanted was to hear that unique voice one last time.

He wasn't even crying; somehow, he'd always known this day was imminent. He hated himself too much: he didn't see his own value as being any higher than any of the single pieces of discarded trash which reeked down in the bin in front of him.

But Sebastian never answered.

Riley hoisted himself up, and then gave way and allowed for his own weight to pull him down into the waste. An arm was erected, unintentionally waving goodbye to the supportive alleyway as it grabbed at the dumpster's lid and closed it with a ringing, thunderous slam.

Lying there on his side, knees pulled towards his chest in the absolute, unforgiving darkness, he felt like he'd returned to the womb. Ri wished he'd never had to leave it to be shown the world his life had been wrung through.

When the garbage truck made it to that precise dumpster, all said truck accomplished was its job: disposal. Ri's will to live had already fled him and despite having a pulse, for all intents and purposes, he had given up. He was dead; the truck's compressor, to which Riley's muscles didn't even give a twitch of struggle towards, crushed vital organs and split bones. It churned him in with the shit he was surrounded by and felt like; it crushed and broke down his body until he was as literally lifeless as he was figuratively. 


End file.
